>E«K 


1KIIJY 

KARY 


LIB 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
V       CALIFORNIA 


$& •*. 

*  £?•• 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS. 


BY 


HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE. 


»V  TH    IL  L  US  TRA  T1QXS. 


BOSTON : 

TICK  NOR     AND     FIELDS 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

HARRIET    I5EECHER    STOWE, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


((tpl,    M 1301 1 3. 


I 

UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ST.  CATHERINE  BORNE  BY  ANGELS  i 

THE  CHARMER *     .  6 

KNOCKING 10 

THE  OLD  PSALM  TUNE 15 

THE  OTHER  WORLD 19 

MARY  AT  THE  CROSS 22 

THE  INNER  VOICE 28 

ABIDE  IN  ME,  AND  I  IN  YOU 30 

THE  SECRET 32 

THINK  NOT  ALL  is  OVER 34 

LINES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  "ANNIE"  .        .        .        -36 

THE  CROCUS 39 

CONSOLATION 41 

"ONLY  A  YEAR" 44 

BELOW     .        .        .        ,      t 47 

ABOVE 49 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  STUART             .        .  53 

SUMMER  STUDIES 57 


642 


iv  Contents. 

HOURS  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

I.    MIDNIGHT        .        .               . »  .  .       .  -65 

II.    FIRST  HOUR        .        .*              .        .        .  68 

III.  SECOND  HOUR         .        .        .    '    .        '.  .71 

IV.  THIRD  HOUR       .^       .   '    »      *v,     :  -.  .  74 
V.    FOURTH  HOUR        .        .        .        .       ^  -77 

VI.    DAY  DAWN  .        .        .        ...     0.*'.f    .  85 

VII.    WHEN  I  AWAKE  I  AM  STILL  WITH  THEE  .    88 

PRESSED  FLOWERS  FROM  ITALY. 

A  DAY  IN  THE  PAMFILI  DORIA    .        •$  •  -93 

THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  VATICAN        .        .        .  102 

ST.  PETER'S  CHURCH      .      .  4  *    .        .  ''    .  .104 

THE  MISERERE    .       •.        *        .'       ...        .  106 


ST.    CATHERINE    BORNE   BY    ANGELS.* 

O  LOW  through  the  solemn  air,  in  silence  sailing, 

Borne  by  mysterious  angels,  strong  and  fair, 
She  sleeps  at  last,  blest  dreams  her  eyelids  veiling, 
Above  this  weary  world  of  strife  and  care. 


*  According  to  this  legend,  Catherine  was  a  noble  maiden 
of  Alexandria,  distinguished  alike  by  birth,  riches,  beauty,  and 
the  rarest  gifts  of  genius  and  learning.  In  the  flower  of  her 
life  she  consecrated  herself  to  the  service  of  her  Redeemer, 
md  cheerfully  suffered  for  his  sake  the  loss  of  wealth,  friends, 
and  the  esteem  of  the  world.  Banishment,  imprisonment, 


2  6V.   Catherine  borne  by  Angels. 

Lo  how  she  passeth  !  —  dreamy,  slow,  and  calm  : 
Scarce  wave  those  broad,  white  wings,  so  silvery 
bright  ; 

Those  cloudy  robes,  in  star-emblazoned  folding, 
Sweep  mistily  athwart  the  evening  light. 

Far,  far  below,  the  dim,  forsaken  earth, 

The  foes  that  threaten,  or  the  friends  that  weep ; 

Past,  like  a  dream,  the  torture  and  the  pain  : 
For  so  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

The  restless  bosom  of  the  surging  ocean 

Gives  back  the  image  as  the  cloud  floats  o'er, 

Hushing  in  glassy  awe  his  troubled  motion  ; 
For  one  blest  moment  he  complains  no  more. 


and  torture  were  in  vain  tried  to  shake  the  constancy  of  her 
faith  ;  and  at  last  she  was  bound  upon  the  torturing-wheel  for 
a  cruel  death.  But  the  angels  descended,  so  says  the  story, 
rent  the  wheel,  and  bore  her  away,  through  the  air,  far  over 
the  sea,  to  Mount  Sinai,  where  her  body  was  left  to  repose, 
and  her  soul  ascended  with  them  to  heaven. 


St.   Catherine  borne  by  Angels.  3 

Like  the  transparent  golden  floor  of  heaven, 
His  charmed  waters  lie  as  in  a  dream, 

And  glistening  wings,  and  starry  robes  unfolding, 
And  serious  angel  eyes  far  downward  gleam. 

O  restless  sea  !  thou  seemest  all  enchanted 

By  that  sweet  vision  of  celestial  rest  ; 
AVhere  are    the   winds   and   tides   thy  peace    that 

haunted,  — 
So  still  thou  seemest,  so  glorified  and  blest ! 

Ah,  sea  !  to-morrow,  that  sweet  scene  forgotten, 
Dark  tides  and  tempests  shall  thy  bosom  rear  ; 

And  thy  complaining  waves,  with  restless  motion, 
Shall  toss  their  hands  in  their  old  wild  despair. 

So  o'er  our  hearts  sometimes  the  sweet,  sad  story 
Of  suffering  saints,  borne  homeward  crowned  and 
blest, 

Shines  down  in  stillness  with  a  tender  glory, 
And  makes  a  mirror  there  of  breathless  rest. 


4  6V.   Catherine  borne  by  Angels. 

For  not  alone  in  those  old  Eastern  regions 

Are  Christ's    beloved   ones   tried    by  cross  and 
chain  ; 

In  many  a  house  are  his  elect  ones  hidden, 
His  martyrs  suffering  in  their  patient  pain. 

The  rack,  the  cross,  life's  weary  wrench  of  woe. 
The  world  sees  not,  as  slow,  from  day  to  day, 

In  calm,  unspoken  patience,  sadly  still, 
The  loving  spirit  bleeds  itself  away. 

But  there  are  hours  when,  from  the  heavens  unfold 
ing, 

Come  down  the  angels  with  the  glad  release  : 
And  we  look  upward,  to  behold  in  glory 

Our  suffering  loved  ones  borne  away  to  peace. 

Ah,  brief  the  calm  !  the  restless  wave  of  feeling 
Rises  again  when  the  bright  cloud  sweeps  by, 

And  our  unrestful  souls  reflect  no  longer 
That  tender  vision  of  the  upper  sky. 


S/.   Catherine  borne  by  Angels. 

Espoused  Lord  of  the  pure  saints  in  glory, 
To  whom  all  faithful  souls  affianced  are, 

Breathe  down  thy  peace  into  our  restless  spirits, 
And  make  a  lasting,  heavenly  vision  there. 

So  the  bright  gates  no  more  on  us  shall  close  ; 

No  more  the  cloud  of  angels  fade  away ; 
And  we  shall  walk,  amid  life's  weary  strife, 

In  the  calm  light  of  thine  eternal  day.  , 


THE   CHARMER. 


"  Socrates.  However,  you  and  Simmias  appear  to  me  as  if 
you  wished  to  sift  this  subject  more  thoroughly,  and  to  be 
afraid,  like  children,  lest,  on  the  soul's  departure  from  the 
body,  winds  should  blow  it  away. 

"  Upon  this  Cebes  said,  '  Endeavor  to  teach  us  better,  Soc 
rates.  Perhaps  there  is  a  childish  spirit  in  our  breast  that 
has  such  a  dread.  Let  us  endeavor  to  persuade  him  not  to 
be  afraid  of  death,  as  of  hobgoblins.' 

"  '  But  you  must  charm  him  every  day,'  said  Socrates,  '  until 
you  have  quieted  his  fears.' 

"  '  But  whence,  O  Socrates,'  he  said,  '  can  we  procure  a  skil 
ful  charmer  for  such  a  case,  now  you  are  about  to  leave  us. ' 

"'Greece  is  wide,  Cebes,'  he  said,  'and  in  it  surely  there 
are  skilful  men  ;  and  there  are  many  barbarous  nations,  all  of 
which  you  should  search,  seeking  such  a  charmer,  sparing 
neither  money  nor  toil.'"  —  Last  words  of  Socrates,  as  nar 
rated  by  Plato  in  the  Phado. 


\  T  7E  need  that  charmer,  for  our  hearts  are  sore 
With  longings  for  the  things  that  may  not  be, 
Faint  for  the  friends  that  shall  return  no  more, 
Dark  with  distrust,  or  wrung  with  agony. 


TIic  Charmer.  7 

-  What  is  this  life  ?  and  what  to  us  is  death  ? 

Whence  came  we  ?  whither  go  ?  and  where  are 

those 
Who,  in  a  moment  stricken  from  our  side, 

Passed  to  that  land  of  shadow  and  repose  ? 

"And  are  they  all  dust?  and  dust  must  we  become? 

Or  are  they  living  in  some  unknown  clime  ? 
Shall  we  regain  them  in  that  far-off  home, 

And  live  anew  beyond  the  waves  of  time  ? 

"  O  man  divine  !  on  thee  our  souls  have  hung  : 
Thou  wert  our  teacher  in  these  questions  high  ; 

But  ah  !  this  day  divides  thee  from  our  side, 
And  veils  in  dust  thy  kindly-guiding  eye. 

"Where  is  that  Charmer  whom  thou  bidst  us  seek  ? 

On  what  far  shores  may  his  sweet  voice  be  heard  ? 
When  shall  these  questions  of  our  yearning  souls 

Be  answered  by  the  bright  Eternal  Word  ? " 


77ie  Charmer. 

So  spake  the  youth  of  Athens,  weeping  round, 
When  Socrates  lay  calmly  down  to  die  ; 

So  spake  the  sage,  prophetic  of  the  hour 

When  earth's  fair  morning  star  should  rise  on  high. 

They  found  Him  not,  those  youths  of  soul  divine, 
Long    seeking,    wandering,    watching    on    life's 
shore  ; 

Reasoning,  aspiring,  yearning  for  the  light, 

Death  came  and  found  them — doubting  as  before. 

But  years  passed  on  ;  and  lo  !  the  Charmer  came, 
Pure,  simple,  sweet,  as  comes  the  silver  dew, 

And  the  world  knew  him  not,  —  he  walked  alone, 
Encircled  only  by  his  trusting  few. 

... 

Like  the  Athenian  sage,  rejected,  scorned, 

Betrayed,  condemned,  his  day  of  doom  drew  nigh; 

He  drew  his  faithful  few  more  closely  round, 
And  told  them  that  his  hour  was  come — to  die. 


TJic  Charmer.  9 


"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  then  He  said, 
"  My  Father's  house  hath  mansions  large  and  fair  \ 

I  go  before  you  to  prepare  your  place, 
I  will  return  to  take  you  with  me  there." 


And  since  that  hour  the  awful  foe  is  charmed, 
And  life  and  death  are  glorified  and  fair  ; 

Whither  He  went  we  know,  the  way  we  know, 
And  with  firm  step  press  on  to  meet  him  there. 


KNOCKING. 


"  Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.'' 


'17'  NOCKING,  knocking,  ever  knocking? 

Who  is  there  ? 
T  is  a  pilgrim,  strange  and  kingly, 

Never  such  was  seen  before  ;  — 
Ah,  sweet  soul,  for  such  a  wonder 

Undo  the  door. 

No,  —  that  door  is  hard  to  open  ; 
Hinges  rusty,  latch  is  broken  ; 

Bid  Him  go. 

Wherefore,  with  that  knocking  drear/ 
Scare  the  sleep  from  one  so  weary  ? 

Say  Him,  —  no. 


Knocking. 


1 1 


Knocking,  knocking,  ever  knocking? 

What!     Still  there? 
(),  sweet  soul,  but  once  behold  Him, 
With  the  glory-crowne'd  hair ; 
And  those  eyes,  so  strange  and  tender, 


1 2  Knocking. 

Waiting  there  ; 

Open  !     Open  !     Once  behold  Him,  — 
Him,  so  fair. 

Ah,  that  door !     Why  wilt  Thou  vex  me, 

Coming  ever  to  perplex  me  ? 

For  the  key  is  stiffly  rusty, 

And  the  bolt  is  clogged  and  dusty ; 

Many-fingered  ivy-vine 

Seals  it  fast  with  twist  and  twine  ; 

Weeds  of  years  and  years  before 

Choke  the  passage  of  that  door. 

Knocking!  knocking!    What!  still  knocking? 

He  still  there  ? 

What 's  the  hour  ?     The  night  is  waning,  — 
In  my  heart  a  drear  complaining, 

And  a  chilly,  sad  unrest ! 
Ah,  this  knocking  !     It  disturbs  me, 
Scares  my  sleep  with  dreams  unblest ! 


Knocking.  1 3 

Give  me  rest, 
Rest,  —  ah,  rest ! 

Rest,  dear  soul,  He  longs  to  give  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  only  dreamed  of  pleasure, 
Dreamed  of  gifts  and  golden  treasure, 
Dreamed  of  jewels  in  thy  keeping, 
Waked  to  weariness  of  weeping  ;  — 
Open  to  thy  soul's  one  Lover, 
And  thy  night  of  dreams  is  over,    - 
The  true  gifts  He  brings  have  seeming 
More  than  all  thy  faded  dreaming ! 

Did  she  open  ?     Doth  she  ?     Will  she  ? 

So,  as  wondering  we  behold, 

Grows  the  picture  to  a  sign, 

Pressed  upon  your  soul  and  mine  ; 

For  in  every  breast  that  liveth 

Is  that  strange  mysterious  door  ;  — 


14  .       Knocking. 

Though  forsaken  and  betangled, 
Ivy-gnarled  and  weed-bejangled, 
Dusty,  rusty,  and  forgotten  ;  — 
There  the  pierce'd  hand  still  knocketh, 
And  with  ever-patient  watching, 
With  the  sad  eyes  true  and  tender, 
With  the  glory-crowned  hair,  — 
Still  a  God  is  waiting  there. 


THE   OLD    PSALM    TUNE. 

"X/OU  asked,  dear  friend,  the  other  day, 

Why  still  my  charmed  ear 
Rejoiceth  in  uncultured  tone 
That  old  psalm  tune  to  hear? 

I  've  heard  full  oft,  in  foreign  lands, 

The  grand  orchestral  strain, 
Where  music's  ancient  masters  live, 

Revealed  on  earth  again,  - 

Where  breathing,  solemn  instruments, 

In  swaying  clouds  of  sound, 
Bore  up  the  yearning,  tranced  soul, 

Like  silver  wings  around  ;  — 


1 6  The  Old  Psalm   Tune. 

I  Ve  heard  in  old  St.  Peter's  dome, 
Where  clouds  of  incense  rise, 

Most  ravishing  the  choral  swell 
Mount  upwards  to  the  skies. 

And  well  I  feel  the  magic  power, 
When  skilled  and  cultured  art 

Its  cunning  webs  of  sweetness  weaves 
Around  the  captured  heart. 

But  yet,  dear  friend,  though  rudely  sung, 
That  old  psalm  tune  hath  still 

A  pulse  of  power  beyond  them  all 
My  inmost  soul  to  thrill. 

Those  halting  tones  that  sound  to  you, 

Are  not  the  tones  I  hear  ; 
But  voices  of  the  loved  and  lost 

There  meet  my  longing  ear. 


The  Old  Psalm    Tune.  17 

I  hear  my  angel  mother's  voice,  — 
Those  were  the  words  she  sung  ; 

I  hear  my  brother's  ringing  tones, 
As  once  on  earth  they  rung  ; 

And  friends  that  walk  in  white  above 

Come  round  me  like  a  cloud, 
And  far  above  those  earthly  notes 

Their  singing  sounds  aloud. 

There  may  be  discord,  as  you  say  ; 

Those  voices  poorly  ring  ; 
But  there  's  no  discord  in  the  strain 

Those  upper  spirits  sing. 

For  they  who  sing  are  of  the  blest, 

The  calm  and  glorified, 
Whose  hours  are  one  eternal  rest 

On  heaven's  sweet  floating  tide. 

2*  R 


1 8  The  Old  Psalm   Tune. 

Their  life  is  music  and  accord  ; 

Their  souls  and  hearts  keep  time 
In  one  sweet  concert  with  the  Lord,  — 

One  concert  vast,  sublime. 


And  through  the  hymns  they  sang  on  earth 

Sometimes  a  sweetness  falls 
On  those  they  loved  and  left  below, 

And  softly  homeward  calls,  — 


Bells  from  our  own  dear  fatherland, 
Borne  trembling  o'er  the  sea,  — 

The  narrow  sea  that  they  have  crossed, 
The  shores  where  we  shall  be. 

O  sing,  sing  on,  beloved  souls  ! 

Sing  cares  and  griefs  to  rest  ; 
Sing,  till  entranced  we  arise 

To  join  you  'mong  the  blest. 


THE    OTHER    WORLD. 

T  T  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud, 

A  world  we  do  not  see  ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 
May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek  ; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares, 
s        Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 
And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 


23  The  Other  World. 

The  silence,  awful,  sweet,  and  calm, 
They  have  no  power  to  break  ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem, 

They  lull  us  gently  to  our  rest, 
They  melt  into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

'Tis  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be  ;  — 

.  To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 

Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 
And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  to  that  —  from  this,  — 


The  Other  World  21 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 

Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 
To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 

All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us  !  watch  us  still  ; 

Press  nearer  to  our  side ; 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream  ; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


MARY    AT    THE    CROSS. 


"Now  there  stood  by  the  cross  of  Jesus  his  mother." 


O 


WONDROUS  mother!    since  the  dawn  of 

time 

Was  ever  love,  was  ever  grief,  like  thine  ? 
O  highly  favored  in  thy  joy's  deep  How. 

And  favored,  even  in  this,  thy  bitterest  woe ! 

Poor  was  that  home  in  simple  Nazareth 

Where,  fairly  growing,  like  some  silent  flower, 

Last  of  a  kingly  race,  unknown  and  lowly, 
O  desert  lily,  passed  thy  childhood's  hour. 

The  world  knew  not  the  tender,  serious  maiden, 
WTho  through  deep  loving  years  so  silent  grew, 


Maty  at  the  Cross. 


Full  of  high  thought  and  holy  aspiration, 
Which  the  o'ershadowing  God  alone  might  view. 

And  then  it  came,  th  it  message  from  the  highest, 
Such  as  to  woman  ne'er  before  descended, 

The  almighty  wings  thy  prayerful  soul  o'erspread. 
And  with  thy  life  the  Lifc  of  worlds  was  blended. 


24  Mary  at  the  Cross. 

What  visions  then  of  future  glory  filled  thee, 
The  chosen  mother  of  that  King  unknown, 

Mother  fulfiller  of  all  prophecy 

Which,  through  dim  ages,  wondering  seers  had 
shown ! 

Well  did  thy  dark  eye  kindle,  thy  deep  soul 
Rise  into  billows,  and  thy  heart  rejoice  \ 

Then  woke  the  poet's  fire,  the  prophet's  song, 
Tuned  with  strange  burning  words  thy  timid  voice. 

Then,  in  dark  contrast,  came  the  lowly  manger, 
The  outcast  shed,  the  tramp  of  brutal  feet ; 

Again  behold  earth's  learned  and  her  lowly, 
Sages  and  shepherds,  prostrate  at  thy  feet. 

Then  to  the  temple  bearing  —  hark  again 
What  strange  conflicting  tones  of  prophecy 

Breathe  o'er  the  child  foreshadowing  words  of  joy, 
High  triumph  blent  with  bitter  agony ! 


Mary  at  tlic  Cross.  25 

O,  highly  favored  thou  in  many  an  hour 

Spent  in  lone  musings  with  thy  wondrous  Son, 

When  thou  didst  gaze  into  that  glorious  eye, 
And  hold  that  mighty  hand  within  thine  own. 


Blest  through  those  thirty  years,  when  in  thy 
dwelling 

He  lived  a  God  disguised  with  unknown  power  ; 
And  thou  his  sole  adorer,  his  best  love, 

Trusting,  revering,  waited  for  his  hour. 

Blest  in  that  hour,  when  called  by  opening  heaven 
With  cloud  and  voice,  and  the  baptizing  flame, 

Up    from   the    Jordan   walked    th'    acknowledged 

stranger, 
And  awe-struck  crowds  grew  silent  as  he  came. 

Blessed,  when  full  of  grace,  with  glory  crowned, 
He  from  both  hands  almighty  favors  poured, 
3 


26  Mary  at  the  Cross. 


And,  though  He  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head, 
Brought  to  his  feet  alike  the  slave  and  lord. 


Crowds  followed ;   thousands  shouted,   "  Lo,   our 

King !  " 
Fast  beat  thy  heart.     Now,  now  the  hour  draws 

nigh: 

Behold  the  crown,  the  throne,  the  nations  bend  ! 
Ah,  no  !  fond  mother,  no  !  behold  him  die  ! 

Now  by  that  cross  thou  tak'st  thy  final  station, 
And  shar'st  the  last  dark  trial  of  thy  Son ; 

Not  with  weak  tears  or  woman's  lamentation, 
But  with  high,  silent  anguish,  like  his  own. 

Hail !  highly  favored,  even  in  this  deep  passion  ; 

Hail !  in  this  bitter  anguish  thou  art  blest,  — 
Blest  in  the  holy  power  with  Him  to  suffer 

Those  deep  death-pangs  that  lead  to  higher  rest. 


Mary  at  the  Cross.  27 

All  now  is  darkness ;  and  in  that  deep  stillness 
The  God-man  wrestles  with  that  mighty  woe  ; 

Hark  to  that  cry,  the  rock  of  ages  rending,  — 
"  'T  is  finished  !  "     Mother,  all  is  glory  now  ! 

By  sufferings  mighty  as  his  mighty  soul 
Hath  the  Redeemer  risen  forever  blest ; 

And  through  all  ages  must  his  heart-beloved 
Through  the  same  baptism  enter  the  same  rest. 


THE   INNER   VOICE. 


"  Come  ye  yourselves  into  a  desert  place  and  rest  awhile  ; 
for  there  were  many  coming  and  going,  so  that  they  had  no 
time  so  much  as  to  eat." 


'  TV   /T  ID  the  mad  whirl  of  life,  its  dim  confusion, 

Its  jarring  discords  and  poor  vanity, 
Breathing  like  music  over  troubled  waters, 

What  gentle  voice,  O  Christian,  speaks  to  thee  ? 


It  is  a  stranger,  —  not  of  earth  or  earthly  ; 

By  the  serene,  deep  fulness  of  that  eye,  — 
By  the  calm,  pitying  smile,  the  gesture  lowly,  — - 

It  is  thy  Saviour  as  he  passeth  by. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  saith,  "  O  soul  oppressed  and 

weary, 
Come  to  the  shadows  of  my  desert  rest, 


The  Inner   Voice.  29 

Come  walk  with  me  far  from  life's  babbling  dis 
cords, 
And  peace  shall  breathe  like  music  in  thy  breast. 

"  Art  thou  bewildered  by  contesting  voices,  — 
Sick  to  thy  soul  of  party  noise  and  strife  ? 

Come,  leave  it  all,  and  seek  that  solitude 
Where  thou  shalt  learn  of  me  a  purer  life. 

"  When  far  behind  the  world's  great  tumult  dieth, 
Thou  shalt  look  back  and  wonder  at  its  roar  ; 

But  its  far  voice  shall  seem  to  thee  a  dream, 
Its  power  to  vex  thy  holier  life  be  o'er. 

"  There  shalt  thou  learn  the  secret  of  a  power, 
Mine  to  bestow,  which  heals  the  ills  of  living  ; 

To  overcome  by  love,  to  live  by  prayer, 

To  conquer  man's  worst  evils  by  forgiving." 


ABIDE   IN   ME,   AND   I   IN   YOU. 

THE    SOUL'S    ANSWER. 

r  I  ^HAT  mystic  word  of  thine,  O  sovereign  Lord, 

Is  all  too  pure,  too  high,  too  deep  for  me  ; 
Weary  of  striving,  and  with  longing  faint, 
I  breathe  it  back  again  in  prayer  to  thee. 

Abide  in  me,  I  pray,  and  I  in  thee ; 

From  this  good  hour,  O,  leave  me  nevermore  ; 
Then  shall  the  discord  cease,  the  wound  be  healed, 

The  lifelong  bleeding  of  the  soul  be  o'er. 

Abide  in  me  ;  o'ershadow  by  thy  love 

Each  half-formed  purpose  and  dark  thought  of 
sin  ; 


Abide  in  me,  and  I  in  yon.  31 

Quench,  e'er  it  rise,  each  selfish,  low  desire, 
And  keep  my  soul  as  thine,  calm  and  divine. 

As  some  rare  perfume  in  a  vase  of  clay 
Pervades  it  with  a  fragrance  not  its  own, 

So,  when  thou  dwellest  in  a  mortal  soul, 

All   heaven's    own   sweetness   seems   around   it 
thrown. 

Abide  in  me  :  there  have  been  moments  blest 
When  I  have  heard  thy  voice  and  felt  thy  power  ; 

Then  evil  lost  its  grasp,  and  passion,  hushed, 
Owned  the  divine  enchantment  of  the  hour. 

These  were  but  seasons,  beautiful  and  rare ; 

Abide  in  me,  and  they  shall  ever  be. 
Fulfil  at  once  thy  precept  and  my  prayer,  — 

Come,  and  abide  in  me,  and  I  in  thee. 


THE    SECRET. 


"Thou  shalt  keep  them  in  the  secret  of  thy  presence  from 
the  strife  of  tongues. " 


\  ^  7 HEN  winds  are  raging  o'er  the  upper  ocean, 

And  billows  wild  contend  with  angry  roar, 
'Tis  said,  far  down  beneath  the  wild  commotion, 
That  peaceful  stillness  reigneth  evermore. 

Far,  far  beneath,  the  noise  of  tempest  dieth, 
And  silver  waves  chime  ever  peacefully ; 

And  no  rude  storm,  how  fierce  soe'er  he  flieth, 
Disturbs  the  sabbath  of  that  deeper  sea. 

So  to  the  soul  that  knows  thy  love,  O  Purest, 
There  is  a  temple  peaceful  evermore  ! 

And  all  the  babble  of  life's  angry  voices 
Die  in  hushed  stillness  at  its  sacred  door. 


The  Secret.  33 

Far,  far  away  the  noise  of  passion  dieth, 
And  loving  thoughts  rise  ever  peacefully  ; 

And  no  rude  storm,  how  fierce  soe'er  he  flieth, 
Disturbs  that  deeper  rest,  O  Lord,  in  thee. 

O  rest  of  rests  !  O  peace  serene,  eternal ! 

Thou  ever  livest  and  thou  changest  never  \ 
And  in  the  secret  of  thy  presence  dwelleth 

Fulness  of  joy,  forever  and  forever. 


THINK    NOT    ALL    IS    OVER. 

HT^HINK  not,  when  the  wailing  winds  of  autumn 

Drive  the  shivering  leaflets  from  the  tree,  — 
Think  not  all  is  over  :  spring  returneth, 

Buds  and  leaves  and  blossoms  thou  shalt  see. 
i 

Think  not,  when  the  earth  lies  cold  and  sealed, 
And  the  weary  birds  above  her  mourn,  — 
Think  not  all  is  over :   God  still  liveth, 
Songs  and  sunshine  shall  again  return. 

Think  not,  when  thy  heart  is  waste  and  dreary, 
When  thy  cherished  hopes  lie  chill  and  sere,  - 
Think  not  all  is  over  :  God  still  loveth, 
He  will  wipe  away  thy  every  tear. 


TJiink  not  all  is  over.  35 

Weeping  for  a  night  alone  endureth, 
God  at  last  shall  bring  a  morning  hour ; 
In  the  frozen  buds  of  every  winter 
Sleep  the  blossoms  of  a  future  flower. 


LINES 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF    "ANNIE,"    WHO    DIED   AT    MILAN, 
JUNE   6,    i860.  . 

"Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Woman,  why  weepest  thou?  whom 
seekest  thou  ?  She,  supposing  him  to  be  the  gardener,  saith 
unto  him,  Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  tell  me 
where  thou  hast  laid  him."  —  JOHN  xx.  15. 

T  N  the  fair  gardens  of  celestial  peace 

Walketh  a  Gardener  in  meekness  clad  ; 
Fair  are  the  flowers  that  wreathe  his  dewy  locks, 
And  his  mysterious  eyes  are  sweet  and  sad. 

Fair  are  the  silent  foldings  of  his  robes, 
Falling  with  saintly  calmness  to  his  feet ; 

And  when  he  walks,  each  floweret  to  his  will 
With  living  pulse  of  sweet  accord  doth  beat. 

Every  green  leaf  thrills  to  its  tender  heart, 
In  the  mild  summer  radiance  of  his  eye  ; 


Lines.  37 

No  fear  of  storm,  or  cold,  or  bitter  frost, 

Shadows  the  flowerets  when  their  sun  is  nigh. 

And  all  our  pleasant  haunts  of  earthly  love 
Are  nurseries  to  those  gardens  of  the  air  ; 

And  his  far-darting  eye,  with  starry  beam, 
Watcheth  the  growing  of  his  treasures  there. 

We  call  them  ours,  o'erwept  with  selfish  tears, 
O'erwatched  with  restless  longings  night  and  day ; 

Forgetful  of  the  high,  mysterious  right 

He  holds  to  bear  our  cherished  plants  away. 

But  when  some  sunny  spot  in  those  bright  fields 
Needs  the  fair  presence  of  an  added  flower, 

Down  sweeps  a  starry  angel  in  the  night : 

At  morn,  the  rose  has  vanished  from  our  bower. 

Where  stood  our  tree,  our  flower,  there  is  a  grave  ! 
Blank,  silent,  vacant,  but  in  worlds  above, 
4 


38  Lines. 

Like  a  new  star  outblossomed  in  the  skies, 
The  angels  hail  an  added  flower  of  love. 

Dear  friend,  no  more  upon  that  lonely  mound, 
Strewed  with  the  red  and  yellow  autumn  leaf, 

Drop  thou  the  tear,  but  raise  the  fainting  eye 
Beyond  the  autumn  mists  of  earthly  grief. 

Thy  garden  rose-bud  bore,  within  its  breast, 
Those  mysteries  of  color,  warm  and  bright, 

That  the  bleak  climate  of  this  lower  sphere 
Could  never  waken  into  form  and  light. 

Yes,  the  sweet  Gardener  hath  borne  her  hence, 
Nor  must  thou  ask  to  take  her  thence  away  ; 

Thou  shalt  behold  her  in  some  coming  hour, 
Full-blossomed  in  his  fields  of  cloudless  day. 


THE    CROCUS. 

T)  ENEATH  the  sunny  autumn  sky, 

With  gold  leaves  dropping  round, 
We  sought,  my  little  friend  and  I, 

The  consecrated  ground, 
Where,  calm  beneath  the  holy  cross, 

O'ershadovved  by  sweet  skies, 
Sleeps  tranquilly  that  youthful  form, 

Those  blue  unclouded  eyes. 

Around  the  soft,  green  swelling  mound 

We  scooped  the  earth  away, 
And  buried  deep  the  crocus-bulbs 

Against  a  coming  day. 
"  These  roots  are  dry,  and  brown,  and  sere ; 

Why  plant  them  here  ? "  he  said, 
"  To  leave  them,  all  the  winter  long, 

So  desolate  and  dead." 


4-O  The  Crocus. 

"  Dear  child,  within  each  sere  dead  form 

There  sleeps  a  living  flower, 
And  angel-like  it  shall  arise 

In  spring's  returning  hour." 
Ah,  deeper  down  —  cold,  dark,  and  chill  — 

We  buried  our  heart's  flower, 
But  angel-like  shall  he  arise 

In  spring's  immortal  hour. 

In  blue  and  yellow  from  its  grave 

Springs  up  the  crocus  fair, 
And  God  shall  raise  those  bright  blue  eyes, 

Those  sunny  waves  of  hair. 
Not  for  a  fading  summer's  morn, 

Not  for  a  fleeting  hour, 
But  for  an  endless  age  of  bliss, 

Shall  rise  our  heart's  dear  flower. 


CONSOLATION. 

WRITTEN    AFTER   THE   SECOND   BATTLE   OF   BULL   RUN. 

"  And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  :  for  the  first 
heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away  ;  and  there  was 
no  more  sea." 

A    H,  many-voiced  and  angry  !  how  the  waves 

Beat  turbulent  with  terrible  uproar  ! 
Is  there  no  rest  from  tossing,  —  no  repose  ? 
Where  shall  we  find  a  haven  and  a  shore  ? 

What  is  secure  from  the  loud-dashing  wave  ? 

There  go  our  riches,  and  our  hopes  fly  there  ; 
There  go  the  faces  of  our  best  beloved, 

Whelmed  in  the  vortex  of  its  wild  despair. 

Whose  son  is  safe  ?  whose  brother,  and  whose  home  ? 

The  dashing  spray  beats  out  the  household  fire  ; 
By  blackened  ashes  weep  our  widowed  souls 

Over  the  embers  of  our  lost  desire. 
4* 


42  Consolation. 

By  pauses,  in  the  fitful  moaning  storm, 
We  hear  triumphant  notes  of  battle  roll. 

Too  soon  the  triumph  sinks  in  funeral  wail ; 

The  muffled  drum,  the  death  march,  shakes  the 
soul ! 

Rocks  on  all  sides,  and  breakers !  at  the  helm 
Weak  human  hand  and  weary  human  eyes. 

The  shout  and  clamor  of  our  dreary  strife 
Goes  up  conflicting  to  the  angry  skies. 

But  for  all  this,  O  timid  hearts,  be  strong ; 

Be  of  good  cheer,  for,  though  the  storm  must  be, 
//  hath  its  Master :  from  the  depths  shall  rise 

New  heavens,  new  earth,  where  shall  be  no  more 
sea. 

No  sea,  no  tossing,  no  unrestful  storm ! 

Forever  past  the  anguish  and  the  strife  ; 
The  poor  old  weary  earth  shall  bloom  again, 

With  the  bright  foliage  of  that  better  life. 


Consolation.  43 

And  war,  and  strife,  and  hatred,  shall  be  past, 

And  misery  be  a  forgotten  dream. 
The  Shepherd  God  shall  lead  his  peaceful  fold 

By  the  calm  meadows  and  the  quiet  stream. 

Be  still,  be  still,  and  know  that  he  is  God ; 

Be  calm,  be  trustful ;  work,  and  watch,  and  pray, 
Till  from  the  throes  of  this  last  anguish  rise 

The  light  and  gladness  of  that  better  day. 


"ONLY    A    YEAR." 

/^VNE  year  ago,  —  a  ringing  voice, 

A  clear  blue  eye, 

And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair, 
Too  fair  to  die. 

Only  a  year,  —  no  voice,  no  smile, 

No  glance  of  eye, 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair, 

Fair  but  to  die  ! 

One  year  ago,  —  what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life  ! 
What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves, 

What  generous  strife ! 


"  Only  a    Year"  45 

The  silent  picture  on  the  wall, 

The  burial  stone, 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life,  and  joy 

Remain  alone ! 

One  year,  —  one  year,  —  one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone  ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 

I 

The  grave  grows  green,  the  flowers  bloom  fair, 

Above  that  head  ; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray  • 

Says  he  is  dead. 

No  pause  or  hush  of  merry  birds, 

That  sing  above, 
Tells  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 

The  form  we  love. 


46  "  Only  a   Year." 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved  ? 

What  hast  thou  seen  ? 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life, 

Where  thou  hast  been  ? 


The  veil !  the  veil !  so  thin,  so  strong ! 

Twixt  us  and  thee  ; 
The  mystic  veil !  when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see  ? 

Not  dead,  not  sleeping,  not  even  gone, 

But  present  still, 
And  waiting  for  the  coming  hour 

Of  God's  sweet  will. 

Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Our  Saviour  dear ! 
We  lay  in  silence  at  thy  feet 

This  sad,  sad  year  ! 


BELOW. 


T     OUDLY  sweep  the  winds  of  autumn 

O'er  that  lone,  beloved  grave, 
Where  we  laid  those  sunny  ringlets, 
When  those  blue  eyes  set  like  stars, 
Leaving  us  to  outer  darkness. 
O  the  longing  and  the  aching  ! 
O  the  sere  deserted  grave  ! 


48  Below. 

Let  the  grass  turn  brown  upon  thee, 
Brown  and  withered  like  our  dreams ! 
Let  the  wind  moan  through  the  pine-trees 
With  a  dreary,  dirge-like  whistle, 
Sweep  the  dead  leaves  on  its  bosom,  — 
Moaning,  sobbing  through  the  branches, 
Where  the  summer  laughed  so  gayly. 

He  is  gone,  our  boy  of  summer,  — 
Gone  the  light  of  his  blue  eyes, 
Gone  the  tender  heart  and  manly, 
Gone  the  dreams  and  the  aspirings,  — 
Nothing  but  the  mound  remaineth, 
And  the  aching  in  our  bosoms, 
Ever  aching,  ever  throbbing  : 
Who  shall  bring  it  unto  rest  ? 


ABOVE. 

A   VISION. 

/DOMING  down  a  golden  street 

I  beheld  my  vanished  one, 
And  he  moveth  on  a  cloud, 
And  his  forehead  wears  a  star  ; 
And  his  blue  eyes,  deep  and  holy, 
Fixed  as  in  a  blessed  dream, 
See  some  mystery  of  joy, 
Some  unuttered  depth  of  love. 

And  his  vesture  is  as  blue 
As  the  skies  of  summer  are, 
Falling  with  a  saintly  sweep, 
With  a  sacred  stillness  swaying  ; 
And  he  presseth  to  his  bosom 
Harp  of  strange  and  mystic  fashion, 


Above. 

And  his  hands,  like  living  pearls, 
Wander  o'er  the  golden  strings. 

And  the  music  that  ariseth, 
Who  can  utter  or  divine  it  ? 
In  that  strange  celestial  thrilling, 
Every  memory  of  sorrow, 
Every  heart-ache,  every  anguish, 
Every  fear  for  the  to-morrow, 
Melt  away  in  charme'd  rest. 

And  there  be  around  him  many, 
Bright  with  robes  like  evening  clouds,  - 
Tender  green  and  clearest  amber, 
Crimson  fading  into  rose, 
Robes  of  flames  and  robes  of  silver,  — 
And  their  hues  all  thrill  and  tremble 
With  a  living  light  of  feeling, 
Deepening  with  each  heart's  pulsation, 
Till  in  vivid  trance  of  color 


That  celestial  rainbow  glows. 


Above.  5 1 

How  they  float  and  wreathe  and  brighten, 
Bending  low  their  starry  brows, 
Singing  with  a  tender  cadence, 
And  their  hands,  like  spotless  lilies, 
Folded  on  their  prayerful  breasts. 
In  their  singing  seem  to  mingle 
Tender  airs  of  by-gone  days  ;  — 
Mother-hymnings  by  the  cradle, 
Mother-moanings  by  the  grave, 
Songs  of  human  love  and  sorrow, 
Songs  of  endless  love  and  rest ;  — 
In  the  pauses  of  that  music 
Every  throb  of  sorrow  dies. 

O  my  own,  my  heart's  belove'd, 
Vainly  have  I  wept  above  thee  ? 
Would  I  call  thee  from  thy  glory 
To  this  world's  impurity  ?  — 
Lo!  it  passeth,  it  dissolveth, 
All  the  vision  melts  away ; 


52  Above. 

But  as  if  a  heavenly  lily 
Dropped  into  my  aching  breast, 
With  a  healing  sweetness  laden, 
With  a  mystic  breath  of  rest, 
I  am  charmed  into  forgetting 
Autumn  winds  and  dreary  grave. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED    BY   THE   DEATH   OF   MRS.    PROFESSOR    STUART 
OF   AN  DOVER,    MASS. 

T   T  OW  quiet,  through  the  hazy  autumn  air, 

The    elm-boughs   wave  with  many  a  gold- 
flecked  leaf! 

How  calmly  float  the  dreamy  mantled  clouds 
Through  these  still  days  of  autumn,  fair  and  brief! 

Our  Andover  stands  thoughtful,  fair,  and  calm, 
Waiting  to  lay  her  summer  glories  by 
E'er  the  bright  flush  shall  kindle  all  her  pines, 
And  her  woods  blaze  with  autumn's  heraldry. 

By  the  old  mossy  wall  the  golden-rod 
Waves  as  aforetime,  and  the  purple  sprays 
Of  starry  asters  quiver  to  the  breeze, 
Rustling  all  stilly  through  the  forest  ways. 


f 

54  Lines. 


No  voice  of  triumph  from  those  silent  skies 
Breaks  on  the  calm,  and  speaks  of  glories  near, 
Nor  bright  wings  flutter,  nor  fair  glistening  robes 
Proclaim  that  heavenly  messengers  are  here. 

Yet  in  our  midst  an  angel  hath  come  down, 
Troubling  the  waters  in  a  peaceful  home  ; 
And  from  that  home,  of  life's  long  sickness  healed, 
A    saint   hath   risen,   where    pain    no   more    may 
come. 

Christ's  fair  elect  one,  from  a  hidden  life 
Of  loving  deeds  and  words  of  gentleness, 
Hath  passed  where  all  are  loving  and  beloved, 
Beyond  all  weariness  and  all  distress. 

Calm,  like  a  lamb  in  shepherd's  bosom  borne, 
Quiet  and  trustful  hath  she  sunk  to  rest ; 
God  breathed  in  tenderness  the  sweet  "Well  done!" 
That  scarce  awoke  a  trance  so  still  and  blest. 


Lines.  ,         55 

Ye  who  remember  the  long  loving  years, 
The  patient  mother's  hourly  martyrdom, 
The  self-renouncing  wisdom,  the  calm  trust, 
Rejoice  for  her  whose  day  of  rest  is  come ! 

Father  and  mother,  now  united,  stand 
Waiting  for  you  to  bind  the  household  chain  ; 
The  tent  is  struck,  the  home  is  gone  before, 
And  tarries  for  you  on  the  heavenly  plain. 

By  every  wish  repressed  and  hope  resigned, 
Each  cross  accepted  and  each  sorrow  borne, 
She  dead  yet  speaketh,  she  doth  beckon  you 
To  tread  the  path  her  patient  feet  have  worn. 

Each  year  that  world  grows  richer  and  more  dear 
With  the  bright  freight  washed  from  life's  stormy 

shore  ; 

O  goodly  clime,  how  lovely  is  thy  strand, 
With  those  dear  faces  seen  on  earth  no  more  ! 


56  Lines. 

The  veil  between  this  world  and  that  to  come 
Grows  tremulous  and  quivers  with  their  breath 
Dimly  we  hear  their  voices,  see  their  hands, 
Inviting  us  to  the  release  of  death. 

O  Thou,  in  whom  thy  saints  above,  below, 
Are  one  and  undivided,  grant  us  grace 
In  patience  yet  to  bear  our  daily  cross,  — 
In  patience  run  our  hourly  shortening  race  ! 

And  while  on  earth  we  wear  the  servant's  form, 
And  while  life's  labors  ever  toilful  be, 
Breathe  in  our  souls  the  joyful  confidence 
We  are  already  kings  and  priests  with  thee. 


SUMMER    STUDIES. 

T  T  7HY  shouldst  thou  study  in  the  month  of 

June 

In  dusky  books  of  Greek  and  Hebrew  lore, 
When  the  Great  Teacher  of  all  glorious  things 
Passes  in  hourly  light  before  thy  door  ? 

There  is  a  brighter  book  unrolling  now ; 

Fair  are  its  leaves  as  is  the  tree  of  heaven, 

All  veined  and  dewed  and  gemmed  with  wondrous 

signs, 
To  which  a  healing  mystic  power  is  given. 

A  thousand  voices  to  its  study  call, 
From  the  fair  hill-top,  from  the  waterfall, 
Where  the  bird  singeth,  and  the  yellow  bee, 
And  the  breeze  talketh  from  the  airy  tree. 


58  Summer  Studies. 

Now  is  that  glorious  resurrection  time 

When  all  earth's  buried  beauties  have  new  birth  : 

Behold  the  yearly  miracle  complete,  — 

God  hath  created  a  new  heaven  and  earth  ! 

No  tree  that  wants  its  joyful  garments  now, 
No  flower  but  hastes  his  bravery  to  don  ; 
God  bids  thee  to  this  marriage  feast  of  joy, 
Let  thy  soul  put  the  wedding  garment  on. 

All  fringed  with  festal  gold  the  barberry  stands  ; 
The  ferns,  exultant,  clap  their  new-made  wings  ; 
The  hemlock  rustles  broideries  of  fresh  preen, 

C>  " 

And  thousand  bells  of  pearl  the  blueberry  rings. 

The  long,  weird  fingers  of  the  old  white-pines     * 

Do  beckon  thee  into  the  flickering  wood, 

',*. 
Whore  moving  spots  of  light  show  mystic  flowers, 

And  wavering  music  fills  the  dreamy  hours. 


Summer  Studies. 


59 


Hast  thou  no  time  for  all  this 
wondrous  show, — 

No  thought  to  spare?  Wilt 
thou  forever  be 

With  thy  last  year's  dry  flower- 
stalk  and  dead  leaves, 

And  no  new  shoot  or  blossom 
on  thy  tree  ? 


See  how  the  pines  push  off  their  last  year's  leaves. 
And  stretch  beyond  them  with  exultant  bound  : 


60  Stimmer  Studies. 

The  grass  and  flowers,  with  living  power,  o'ergrow 
Their  last  year's  remnants  on  the  greening  ground. 

Wilt  thou,  then,  all  thy  wintry  feelings  keep, 
The  old  dead  routine  of  thy  book-writ  lore, 
Nor  deem  that  God  can  teach,  by  one  bright  hour, 
What  life  hath  never  taught  to  thee  before  ? 

See  what  vast  leisure,  what  unbounded  rest, 
Lie  in  the  bending  dome  of  the  blue  sky  : 
Ah  !  breathe  that  life-born  languor  from  thy  breast, 
And  know  once  more  a  child's  unreasoning  joy. 

Cease,  cease  to  think,  and  be  content  to  be ; 
Swing  safe  at  anchor  in  fair  Nature's  bay ; 
Reason  no  more,  but  o'er  thy  quiet  soul 
Let  God's  sweet  teachings  ripple  their  soft  way. 

Soar  with  the  birds,  and  flutter  with  the  leaf; 
Dance  with  the  seeded  grass  in  fringy  play  ; 


Summer  Studies.  61 

Sail  with  the  cloud,  wave  with  the  dreaming  pine, 
And  float  with  Nature  all  the  livelong  day. 

Call  not  such  hours  an  idle  waste  of  time,  - 
Land  that  lies  fallow  gains  a  quiet  power ; 
It  treasures,  from  the  brooding  of  God's  wings, 
Strength  to  unfold  the  future  tree  and  flower. 

And  when  the  summer's  glorious  show  is  past, 
Its  miracles  no  longer  charm  thy  sight, 
The  treasured  riches  of  those  thoughtful  hours 
Shall  make  thy  wintry  musings  warm  and  bright. 


HOURS    OF    THE    NIGHT; 


WATCHES   OF    SORROW. 


I. 

MIDNIGHT. 

"He  hath  made  me  to  dwell  in  darkness  as  those  that  have 
been  long  dead. " 

A    LL  dark  !  —  no  light,  no  ray  ! 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  gone  ! 
Dimness  of  anguish  !  —  utter  void  !  - 
Crushed,  and  alone  ! 

One  waste  of  weary  pain, 
One  dull,  unmeaning  ache, 
A  heart  too  weary  even  to  throb, 
Too  bruised  to  break. 


:.. 

66  Hours  of  the  Night. 

No  longer  anxious  thoughts, 
No  longer  hopes  and  fears, 
No  strife,  no  effort,  no  desire, 
No  tears. 


Daylight  and  leaves  and  flowers, 
Summer  and  song  of  bird  !  — 
All  vanished  !  —  dreams  forever  gone, 
Unseen,  unheard  ! 

Love,  beauty,  youth,  —  all  gone  ! 
The  high,  heroic  vow, 
The  buoyant  hope,  the  fond  desire,  '• — 
All  ashes  now  ! 

The  words  they  speak  to  me 
Far  off  and  distant  seem, 
As  voices  we  have  known  and  loved 
Speak  in  a  dream. 


Midnight.  67 

They  bid  me  to  submit ; 
I  do,  —  I  cannot  strive  ; 
I  do  not  question,  —  I  endure, 
Endure  and  live. 

I  do  not  struggle  more, 
Nor  pray,  for  prayer  is  vain  ; 
I  but  lie  still  the  weary  hour, 
And  bear  my  pain. 

A  guiding  God,  a  Friend, 
A  Father's  gracious  cheer, 
Once  seemed  my  own  ;  but  now  even  faith 
Lies  buried  here, 

This  darkened,  deathly  life 
Is  all  remains  of  me, 
And  but  one  conscious  wish,  — 
To  cease  to  be  ! 


68  Hours  of  the  Night. 


II. 
FIRST    HOUR. 

"  There  was  darkness  over  all  the  land  from  the  sixth  hour 
unto  the  ninth  hour. 

"And  Jesus  cried  and  said,  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast 
thou  forsaken  me  ?  " 

'THHAT  cry  hath   stirred  the  deadness  of  my 

soul ; 

I  feel  a  heart-string  throb,  as  throbs  a  chord 
When   breaks   the    master   chord   of   some    great 

harp; 
My  heart  responsive  answers,  "  Why  ?  "  O  Lord. 


O  cross  of  pain  !  O  crown  of  cruel  thorns  ! 
O  piercing  nails  !  O  spotless  Sufferer  there  ! 
Wert  thou  forsaken  in  thy  deadly  strife  ? 
Then  canst  thou  pity  me  in  my  despair. 


First  Hour.  69 

Take  my  dead  heart,  O  Jesus,  down  with  thee 
To  that  still  sepulchre  where  thou  didst  rest ; 
Lay  it  in  the  fair  linen's  spicy  folds, 
As  a  dear  mother  lays  her  babe  to  rest. 

I  am  so  worn,  so  weary,  so  o'erspent, 
To  lie  with  thee  in  that  calm  trance  were  sweet ; 
The  bitter  myrrh  of  long-remembered  pain 
May  work  in  me  new  strength  to  rise  again. 

This  dark  and  weary  mystery  of  woe, 
This  hopeless  struggle,  this  most  useless  strife,  — 
Ah,  let  it  end  !     I  die  with  thee,  my  Lord, 
To  all  I  ever  hoped  or  wished  from  life. 

I  die  with  thee  :  thy  fellowship  of  grief, 
Thy  partnership  with  mortal  misery, 
The  weary  watching  and  the  nameless  dread,  - 
Let  them  be  mine  to  make  me  one  with  thee. 


70  Hours  of  the  Night. 

Thou  hast  asked,  "Why?"  and  God  will  answer  thee, 
Therefore  I  ask  not,  but  in  peace  lie  down, 
For  the  three  days  of  mystery  and  rest, 
Till  comes  the  resurrection  and  the  crown. 


Second  Hour.  71 

III. 
SECOND   HOUR. 


"They  laid  hold  upon  one  Simon  a  Cyrenian,  and  on  him 
they  laid  the  cross,  that  he  might  bear  it  after  Jesus. " 


A   LONG  the  dusty  thoroughfare  of  life, 
Upon  his  daily  errands  walking  free, 
Came  a  brave,  honest  man,  untouched  by  pain, 
Unchilled  by  sight  or  thought  of  misery. 

Hut  lo  !  a  crowd  :  —  he  stops,  —  with  curious  eye 
A  fainting  form  all  pressed  to  earth  he  sees  ; 

The  hard,  rough  burden  of  the  bitter  cross 

Hath  bowed  the  drooping  head  and  feeble  knees. 

Ho  !  lay  the  cross  upon  yon  stranger  there, 

For  he  hath  breadth  of  chest  and  strength  of  limb. 

Straight  it  is  done  ;  and  heavy  laden  thus, 
With  Jesus'  cross,  he  turns  and  follows  him. 


72  Hours  of  the  Night. 

Unmurmuring,  patient,  cheerful,  pitiful, 
Prompt  with  the  holy  sufferer  to  endure, 

Forsaking  all  to  follow  the  dear  Lord,  — 
Thus  did  he  make  his  glorious  calling  sure. 

O  soul,  whoe'er  thou  art,  walking  life's  way, 
As  yet  from  touch  of  deadly  sorrow  free, 

Learn  from  this  story  to  forecast  the  day 

When  Jesus  and  his  cross  shall  come  to  thee. 
/ 

O,  in  that  fearful,  that  decisive  hour, 

Rebel  not,  shrink  not,  seek  not  thence  to  flee, 

But,  humbly  bending,  take  thy  heavy  load, 
And  bear  it  after  Jesus  patiently. 

His  cross  is  thine.     If  thou  and  he  be  one, 

Some  portion  of  his  pain  must  still  be  thine ; 
Thus  only  mayst  thou  share  his  glorious  crown, 
And  reign  with  him  in  majesty  divine. 


Second  Hour. 

Master  in  sorrow  !  I  accept  my  share 
In  the  great  anguish  of  life's  mystery. 

No  more,  alone,  I  sink  beneath  my  load, 
But  bear  my  cross,  O  Jesus,  after  thee. 


74  Hours  of  the  Night. 


IV. 

THIRD    HOUR. 

THE    MYSTERY    OF    LIFE. 

"  Let  my  heart  calm  itself  in  thee.     Let  the  great  sea  of 
my  heart,  that  swelleth  with  waves,  calm  itself  in  thee. " 

ST.  AUGUSTINE'S  MANUAL. 


L 


IFE'S  mystery — deep,  restless  as  the  ocean  — 
Hath  surged  and  wailed  for  ages  to  and  fro ; 
Earth's  generations  watch  its  ceaseless  motion, 

As  in  and  out  its  hollow  meanings  flow. 
Shivering  and  yearning  by  that  unknown  sea, 
Let  my  soul  calm  itself,  O  Christ,  in  thee ! 

Life's  sorrows,  with  inexorable  power, 
Sweep  desolation  o'er  this  mortal  plain  ; 

And  human  loves  and  hopes  fly  as  the  chaff 
Borne  by  the  whirlwind  from  the  ripened  grain. 

Ah !  when  before  that  blast  my  hopes  all  flee, 

Let  my  soul  calm  itself,  O  Christ,  in  thee ! 


Third  Hour.  75 

Between  the  mysteries  of  death  and  life 

Thou  standest,  loving,  guiding,  not  explaining  ; 

We  ask,  and  thou  art  silent ;  yet  we  gaze, 

And  our  charmed  hearts  forget  their  drear  com 
plaining. 

No  crushing  fate,  no  stony  destiny, 

O  Lamb  that  hast  been  slain,  we  find  in  thee ! 


The  many  waves  of  thought,  the  mighty  tides, 
The    ground-swell    that    rolls    up    from    other 
lands, 

From  far-off  worlds,  from  dim,  eternal  shores, 
Whose  echo  dashes  on  life's  wave-worn  strands, 

This  vague,  dark  tumult  of  the  inner  sea 

Grows  calm,  grows  bright,  O  risen  Lord,  in  thee  ! 

Thy  pierce'd  hand  guides  the  mysterious  wheels  ; 
Thy  thorn-crowned  brow  now  wears  the  crown 
of  power ; 


76  Hours  of  the  Night. 

And  when  the  dread  enigma  presseth  sore, 

Thy  patient  voice  saith,   "Watch  with  me  one 

hour." 

As  sinks  the  moaning  river  in  the  sea 
In  silver  peace,  so  sinks  my  soul  in  thee ! 


Fourtfi  Hour. 


77 


V. 

FOURTH    HOUR. 

THE     SORROWS    OF     MARY. 

DEDICATED   TO   THE    MOTHERS    WHO    HAVE    LOST    SONS    IX 
THE   LATE   WAR. 

T    SLEPT,  but  my  heart  was  waking, 

And  out  in  my  dreams  I  sped, 
Through  the  streets  of  an  ancient  city, 

Where  Jesus,  the  Lord,  lay  dead. 

7* 


7  8  Hours  of  the  Night. 

He  was  lying  all  cold  and  lowly, 
And  the  sepulchre  was  sealed, 

And  the  women  that  bore  the  spices 
Had  come  from  the  holy  field. 

There  is  feasting  in  Pilate's  palace, 
There  is  revel  in  Herod's  hall, 

Where  the  lute  and  the  sounding  instrument 
To  mirth  and  merriment  call. 

"  I  have  washed  my  hands,"  said  Pilate, 
"  And  what  is  the  Jew  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  missed  my  chance,"  said  Herod, 
"  One  of  his  wonders  to  see. 

"  But  why  should  our  courtly  circle 
To  the  thought  give  further  place  ? 

All  dreams,  save  of  pleasure  and  beauty, 
Bid  the  dancers'  feet  efface." 


FonrtJi  Hour.  79 

I  saw  a  light  from  a  casement, 

And  entered  a  lowly  door, 
Where  a  woman,  stricken  and  mournful, 

Sat  in  sackcloth  on  the  floor. 

There  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus, 

And  John,  the  beloved  one, 
With  a  few  poor  friends  beside  them, 

Were  mourning  for  Him  that  was  gone. 

And  before  the  mother  was  lying 

That  crown  of  cruel  thorn, 
Wherewith  they  crowned  that  gentle  brow 

In  mockery  that  morn. 

And  her  ears  yet  ring  with  the  anguish 

Of  that  last  dying  cry,  — 
That  mighty  appeal  of  agony 

That  shook  both  earth  and  sky. 


8o  Hours  of  the  Night. 

O  God,  what  a  shaft  of  anguish 

Was  that  dying  voice  from  the  tree  !  — 

From  Him  the  only  spotless,  — 
"  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me  ?  " 

And  was  he  of  God  forsaken  ? 

They  ask,  appalled  with  dread  ; 
Is  evil  crowned  and  triumphant, 

And  goodness  vanquished  and  dead  ? 

Is  there,  then,  no  God  in  Jacob  ? 

Is  the  star  of  Judah  dim  ? 
For  who  would  our  God  deliver, 

If  he  would  not  deliver  him? 

If  God  could  not  deliver,  —  what  hope  then? 

If  he  would  not,  —  who  ever  shall  dare 
To  be  firm  in  his  service  hereafter  ? 

To  trust  in  his  wisdom  or  cire  ? 


Fourth  Hour.  8 1 

So  darkly  the  Tempter  was  saying, 

To  hearts  that  with  sorrow  were  dumb  ; 
And  the  poor  souls  were  clinging  in  darkness  to 
God, 

With  hands  that  with  anguish  were  numb. 

***** 

In  my  dreams  came  the  third  day  morning, 

And  fairly  the  day-star  shone  ; 
But  fairer,  the  solemn  angel, 

As  he  rolled  away  the  stone. 

In  the  lowly  dwelling  of  Mary, 

In  the  dusky  twilight  chill, 
There  was  heard  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 

And  her  very  heart  grew  still. 

And  in  the  glimmer  of  dawning, 

She  saw  him  enter  the  door, 
Her  Son,  all  living  and  real, 

Risen,  to  die  no  more  ! 


82  Hours  of  the  Night. 

Her  Son,  all  living  and  real, 

Risen  no  more  to  die,  — 
With  the  power  of  an  endless  life  in  his  face, 

With  the  light  of  heaven  in  his  eye. 

O  mourning  mothers,  so  many, 
Weeping  o'er  sons  that  are  dead, 

Have  ye  thought  of  the  sorrows  of  Mary's  heart, 
Of  the  tears  that  Mary  shed  ? 

Is  the  crown  of  thorns  before  you  ? 

Are  there  memories  of  cruel  scorn  ? 
Of  hunger  and  thirst  and  bitter  cold 

That  your  beloved  have  borne  ? 

Had  ye  ever  a  son  like  Jesus 

To  give  to  a  death  of  pain  ? 
Did  ever  a  son  so  cruelly  die, 

But  did  he  die  in  vain  ? 


Fourth  Hour.  83 

Have  ye  ever  thought  that  all  the  hopes 

That  make  our  earth-life  fair 
Were  born  in  those  three  bitter  days 

Of  Mary's  deep  despair  ? 

O  mourning  mothers,  so  many, 

Weeping  in  woe  and  pain, 
Think  on  the  joy  of  Mary's  heart 

In  a  Son  that  is  risen  again. 

Have  faith  in  a  third-day  morning, 

In  a  resurrection-hour  ; 
For  what  ye  sow  in  weakness, 

He  can  raise  again  in  power. 

Have  faith  in  the  Lord  of  that  thorny  crown, 
In  the  Lord  of  the  pierced  hand  ; 

For  he  reigneth  now  o'er  earth  and  heaven, 
And  his  power  who  may  withstand  ? 


84  Hours  of  the  Night. 

And  the  hopes  that  never  on  earth  shall  bloom, 

The  sorrows  forever  new, 
Lay  silently  down  at  the  feet  of  Him 

Who  died  and  is  risen  for  you. 


Day  Dawn.  85 


VI. 
DAY    DAWN. 

'THHE  dim  gray  dawn,  upon  the  eastern  hills, 

Brings  back  to  light  once  more  the  cheer 
less  scene  ; 
But  oh  !  no  morning  in  my  Father's  house 

Is  dawning  now,  for  there  no  night  hath  been. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  now,  on  Zion's  hills, 

All  robed  in  white,  with  palmy  crowns,  do  stray, 

While  I,  an  exile,  for  from  fatherland, 

Still  wandering,  faint  along  the  desert  way. 

O  home !  dear  home  !  my  own,  my  native  home  ! 
O  Father,  friends !  when  shall  I  look  on  you  ? 
When  shall  these  weary  wanderings  be  o'er, 
And  I  be  gathered  back  to  stray  no  more  ? 
8 


86  Hours  of  the  Night. 

0  Thou,  the  brightness  of  whose  gracious  face 
These  weary,  longing  eyes  have  never  seen,  — 
By  whose  dear  thought,  for  whose  beloved  sake, 
My  course,  through  toil  and  tears,  I  daily  take, — 

1  think  of  thee  when  the  myrrh-dropping  morn 
Steps  forth  upon  the  purple  eastern  steep  ; 

I  think  of  thee  in  the  fair  eventide, 

When  the  bright-sandalled  stars  their  watches 
keep. 

And  trembling  hope,  and  fainting,  sorrowing  love, 
On  thy  dear  word  for  comfort  doth  rely  ; 

And  clear-eyed  Faith,  with  strong  forereaching  gaze. 
Beholds  thee  here,  unseen,  but  ever  nigh. 

Walking  in  white  with  thee,  she  dimly  sees, 
All  beautiful,  these  lovely  ones  withdrawn, 

With  whom  my  heart  went  upward,  as  they  rose, 
Like  morning  stars,  to  light  a  coming  dawn. 


Day  Dawn.  87 

All  sinless  now,  and  crowned  and  glorified, 

Where'er  thou  movest  move  they  still  with  thee, 

As  erst,  in  sweet  communion  by  thy  side, 
Walked  John  and  Mary  in  old  Galilee. 

But  hush,  my  heart !     'T  is  but  a  day  or  two 
Divides  thee  from  that  bright,  immortal  shore. 

Rise  up  !  rise  up  !  and  gird  thee  for  the  race  ! 
Fast  fly  the  hours,  and  all  will  soon  be  o'er. 

Thou  hast  the  new  name  written  in  thy  soul ; 

Thou  hast  the  mystic  stone  He  gives  his  own. 
Thy  soul,  made  one  with  him,  shall  feel  no  more 

That  she  is  walking  on  her  path  alone. 


88  Hours  of  the  Night. 


VII. 
WHEN  I  AWAKE  I  AM    STILL  WITH  THEE. 

OTTLL,  still  with  Thee,  when   purple  morning 
breaketh, 

When  the  bird  waketh  and  the  shadows  flee  ; 
Fairer  than  morning,  lovelier  than  the  daylight, 

Dawns  the  sweet  consciousness,  I  am  with  Thee! 

Alone  with  Thee,  amid  the  mystic  shadows, 
The  solemn  hush  of  nature  newly  born  ; 

Alone  with  Thee  in  breathless  adoration, 
In  the  calm  dew  and  freshness  of  the  morn. 

As  in  the  dawning  o'er  the  waveless  ocean 
The  image  of  the  morning  star  doth  rest, 

So  in  this  stillness  Thou  beholdest  only 
Thine  image  in  the  waters  of  my  breast 


When  I  awake  I  am  still  with   Thee.     89 

Still,  still  with  Thee !  as  to  each  new-born  morning 
A  fresh  and  solemn  splendor  still  is  given, 

So  doth  this  blessed  consciousness,  awaking, 
Breathe,  each  day,  nearness  unto  Thee  and  heaven. 

When  sinks  the  soul,  subdued  by  toil,  to  slumber, 
Its  closing  eye  looks  up  to  Thee  in  prayer ; 

Sweet  the  repose  beneath  the  wings  o'ershading, 
But  sweeter  still  to  wake  and  find  Thee  there. 

So  shall  it  be  at  last,  in  that  bright  morning 
When  the  soul  waketh  and  life's  shadows  flee  ; 

O,  in  that  hour,  fairer  than  daylight  dawning, 
Shall  rise  the  glorious  thought,  I  am  with  Thee  ! 


8* 


PRESSED    FLOWERS    FROM    ITALY. 


PAMFILI    DORIA. 


A    DAY   IN   THE   PAMFILI    DORIA. 

npHOUGH  the  hills  are  cold  and  snowy, 

And  the  wind  drives  chill  to-day, 
My  heart  goes  back  to  a  spring-time, 
Far,  far  in  the  past  away. 

And  I  see  a  quaint  old  city, 

Weary  and  worn  and  brown, 
Where  the  spring  and  the  birds  are  so  early, 

And  the  sun  in  such  light  goes  down. 

I  remember  that  old-times  villa, 

Where  our  afternoons  went  by, 
Where  the  suns  of  March  flushed  warmly, 

And  spring  was  in  earth  and  sky. 


96  A  Day  in  tlic  Pamfili  Doria. 

Out  of  the  mouldering  city, 
Mouldering,  old,  and  gray, 

We  sped,  with  a  lightsome  heart-thrill, 
For  a  sunny,  gladsome  day,  — 

For  a  revel  of  fresh  spring  verdure, 
For  a  race  'mid  springing  flowers, 

For  a  vision  of  plashing  fountains, 
Of  birds  and  blossoming  bowers. 

There  were  violet  banks  in  the  shadows, 

Violets  white  and  blue  ; 
And  a  world  of  bright  anemones, 

That  over  the  terrace  grew,  — 

Blue  and  orange  and  purple, 
Rosy  and  yellow  and  white, 

Rising  in  rainbow  bubbles, 
Streaking  the  lawns  with  light 


A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria.          97 

And  down  from  the  old  stone  pine-trees, 

Those  far  off  islands  of  air, 
The  birds  are  flinging  the  tidings 

Of  a  joyful  revel  up  there. 

And  now  for  the  grand  old  fountains, 

Tossing  their  silvery  spray, 
Those  fountains  so  quaint  and  so  many, 

That  are  leaping  and  singing  all  day. 

Those  fountains  of  strange  weird  sculpture, 

With  lichens  and  moss  o'ergrown, 
Are  they  marble  greening  in  moss-wreaths  ? 

Or  moss- wreaths  whitening  to  stone  ? 

Down  many  a  wild,  dim  pathway 
We  ramble  from  morning  till  noon  ; 

We  linger,  upheeding  the  hours, 
Till  evening  comes  all  too  soon. 

9  G 


A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria, 

And  from  out  the  ilex  alleys, 

Where  lengthening  shadows  play, 

We  look  on  the  dreamy  Campagna, 
All  glowing  with  setting  day,  — 

All  melting  in  bands  of  purple, 
In  swathings  and  foldings  of  gold, 

In  ribands  of  azure  and  lilac, 
Like  a  princely  banner  unrolled. 

And  the  smoke  of  each  distant  cottage, 
And  the  flash  of  each  villa  white, 

Shines  out  with  an  opal  glimmer, 
Like  gems  in  a  casket  of  light. 

And  the  dome  of  old  St.  Peter's 
With  a  strange  translucence  glows, 

Like  a  mighty  bubble  of  amethyst 
Floating  in  waves  of  rose. 


A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria.  99 

In  a  trance  of  dreamy  vagueness 
We,  gazing  and  yearning,  behold 

That  city  beheld  by  the  prophet, 
Whose  walls  were  transparent  gold. 

And,  dropping  all  solemn  and  slowly, 

To  hallow  the  softening  spell, 
There  falls  on  the  dying  twilight 

The  Ave  Maria  bell. 


With  a  mournful  motherly  softness, 
With  a  weird  and  weary  care, 

That  strange  and  ancient  city 

Seems  calling  the  nations  to  prayer. 

And  the  words  that  of  old  the  angel 
To  the  mother  of  Jesus  brought, 

Rise  like  a  new  evangel, 

To  hallow  the  trance  of  our  thought. 


ioo        A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria. 

With  the  smoke  of  the  evening  incense, 
Our  thoughts  are  ascending  then 

To  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus, 
To  Jesus,  the  Master  of  men. 


O  city  of  prophets  and  martyrs, 
O  shrines  of  the  sainted  dead, 

When,  when  shall  the  living  day-spring 
Once  more  on  your  towers  be  spread  ? 

When  He  who  is  meek  and  lowly 
Shall  rule  in  those  lordly  halls, 

And  shall  stand  and  feed  as  a  shepherd 
The  flock  which  his  mercy  calls,  — 

O,  then  to  those  noble  churches, 
To  picture  and  statue  and  gem, 

To  the  pageant  of  solemn  worship, 
Shall  the  meaning  come  back  again. 


A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria.          101 

And  this  strange  and  ancient  city, 
In  that  reign  of  His  truth  and  love, 

Shall  be  what  it  seems  in  the  twilight, 
The  type  of  that  City  above. 


THE  GARDENS   OF  THE  VATICAN. 

O  WEET  fountains,  plashing  with  a  dreamy  fall, 
And   mosses   green,   and   tremulous  veils   of 

fern, 

And  banks  of  blowing  cyclamen,  and  stars, 
Blue  as  the  skies,  of  myrtle  blossoming, 
The  twilight  shade  of  ilex  overhead 
O'erbubbling  with  sweet  song  of  nightingale, 
With  walks  of  strange,  weird  stillness,  leading  on 
'Mid  sculptured  fragments  half  to  green  moss  gone, 
Or  breaking  forth  amid  the  violet  leaves 
With  some  white  gleam  of  an  old  world  gone  by. 
Ah !  strange,  sweet  quiet !  wilderness  of  calm, 
Gardens  of  dreamy  rest,  I  long  to  lay 
Beneath  your  shade  the  last  long  sigh,  and  say, 
Here  is  my  home,  my  Lord,  thy  home  and  mine ; 


The  Gardens  of  the    Vatican.          103 

And  I,  having  searched  the  world  with  many  a  tear, 
At  last  have  found  thee  and  will  stray  no  more. 
But  vainly  here  I  seek  the  Gardener 
That  Mary  saw.     These  lovely  halls  beyond, 
That  airy,  sky-like  dome,  that  lofty  fane, 
Is  as  a  palace  whence  the  king  is  gone 
And  taken  all  the  sweetness  with  himself. 
Turn  again,  Jesus,  and  possess  thine  own  ! 
Come  to  thy  temple  once  more  as  of  old  ! 
Drive  forth  the  money-changers,  let  it  be 
A  house  of  prayer  for  nations.     Even  so, 
Amen !     Amen ! 


ST.    PETER'S    CHURCH. 

HOLY  WEEK,    APRIL,    i860. 

S~\   FAIREST  mansion  of  a  Father's  love, 

Harmonious  !  hospitable  !  -with  thine  arms 
Outspread  to  all,  thy  fountains  ever  full, 
And,  fair  as  heaven,  thy  misty,  sky-like  dome 
Hung  like  the  firmament  with  circling  sweep 
Above  the  constellated  golden  lamps 
That  burn  forever  round  the  holy  tomb. 
Most  meet  art  thou  to  be  the  Father's  house, 
The  house  of  prayer  for  nations.     Come  the  time 
When  thou  shalt  be  so  !  when  a  liberty, 
Wide  as  thine  arms,  high  as  thy  lofty  dome, 
Shall  be  proclaimed,  by  thy  loud  singing  choirs, 
Like  voice  of  many  waters  !     Then  the  Lord 
Shall  come  into  his  temple,  and  make  pure 


5*  Prttrs  OmrA  : 


7':;  <o~<   "~  :  ,-.  -      :'•;--.   15    •":;    -     -    :. 
T>.e  b/.r.vi  >h^  5<^.  ±e  fa«K  In^  .i<  ^ 

v.   .-    ..    .-.  .    .Vi._    ...    v;   .<;x       .-..         .,       .     ..   ...   . 


Lafd  is  risen  kuk^d.*  to  die  to  • 

•v^:;  •    .:-.-.  .:<  :. -.:       A",  -        '.  -  : 


THE    MISERERE. 

XT  OT  of  the  earth  that  music  !  all  things  fade  ; 
Vanish  the  pictured  walls  !  and,  one  by  one, 
The  starry  candles  silently  expire  ! 

And  now,  O  Jesus  !  round  that  silent  cross 
A  moment's  pause,  a  hush  as  of  the  grave. 
Now  rises  slow  a  silver  mist  of  sound, 
And  all  the  heavens  break  out  in  drops  of  grief ; 
A  rain  of  sobbing  sweetness,  swelling,  dying, 
Voice  into  voice  inweaving  with  sweet  throbs, 
And  fluttering  pulses  of  impassioned  moan,  — 
Veiled  voices,  in  whose  wailing  there  is  awe, 
And  mysteries  of  love  and  agony, 
A  yearning  anguish  of  celestial  souls, 


The  Miserere.  107 

A  shiver  as  of  wings  trembling  the  air, 
As  if  God's  shining  doves,  his  spotless  birds, 
Wailed  with  a  nightingale's  heart-break  of  grief, 
In  this  their  starless  night,  when  for  our  sins 
Their  sun,  their  life,  their  love,  hangs  darkly  there, 
Like  a  slain  lamb,  bleeding  his  life  away ! 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


2lMav!63MK 

''  C'""LJ   '    i  3 

!;1u  /    '1    \      jf  i  i 

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ft* 


REC'U  LD 


JUH4  '64-5 


MAR     9  1966  0 


REC'D  LD 


«R-7'66 


-8ftM 


EEC.  CIS.    NOV 


1979 


LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


